


Precious

by VesperNexus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Spoilers for the Hobbit (novella and movies)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle has been won.</p><p>Bilbo is limping towards him, filthied and weary and at the point of collapse, but he is smiling and he is the most beautiful creature Thorin had ever seen. He is running towards him and all he wants to do is embrace what he has been missing all his life.</p><p>No one sees the dagger in the dark.<br/>There is a shout and then his Hobbit is crumbling and Thorin could never recall begging so desperately for anyone.</p><p>"Thorin..."</p><p>There is finality and acceptance in his eyes, but this cannot be how it ends. This hell cannot be it.</p><p>"Bilbo Baggin's life is more precious than that even of a King, be it the one under the Mountain or otherwise."</p><p>This cannot be how it ends.</p><p>Or, the one in which Bilbo is the one at death's door. One thing is certain however, Thorin Oakenshield will stop at nothing to save his Hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daggers in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Desolation of Smaug (2013). My edited AU of the ending of the book, and what would have happened if it had been Bilbo in Thorin's place (improvised, however). Beware of Spoilers for the entire book and the Peter Jackson Trilogy.
> 
> The Hobbit (characters and such) does not belong to me (unfortunately...) :)
> 
> First Chapter title inspired by George R.R Martin's A Dance with Dragons (part of the A Song of Ice and Fire series).

His hair flutters with the strengthening howls of the wind and fly past his sharp features. Dark dirty strands, matted and knotted with drying blood stain his skin and he can taste the essence of something bitter and copper on the edge of his tongue, and feels his bones weighing more than they have ever before beneath the worn and broken layers of his flesh. The sword feels as heavy as the Lonely Mountain itself, but it is soaked in the crimson blood of Azog the Defiler and Thorin cannot bring his fingers to unravel themselves from the unshaped and dirty hilt with just as much stubbornness as that of which his eyes refuse to leave the sight of the dying orc; choking on the source of his life before him. He is grasping at his throat where pitch black darkness is spreading, and his knees are colliding with the stained soil beneath him as Thorin watches with a twisted sense of finality. He knows this is a sign if he had ever seen one so clear and true and relieving, and when he is able to pull his gaze from his most vile enemy he sees what the end has brought.

Bodies of allies and enemies alike lie strewn as if toys from a child’s box; old, and withering and forgotten. It does not take long before the sword is slipping from his fingers and his eyes searching eagerly for members of his Company and he cannot help but hope that they have all survived- because such significant lives should not be lost after such a long and perilous journey. 

His legs do not move, but his orbs do. They do and something breaks free from his throat when he sees them- the rest of his Dwarven Company, grim and filthy and bloody but nonetheless very much alive. They are leaning on one another and supporting each other and he can count every single one of them as they tread towards him across the field of battle.

All except one.

His breath hitches as he searches for a flash of pale skin and curls of hazel, delicate bones and determination glimmering in the brightest orbs Thorin had ever laid eyes on. He is searching among the Company, because surely they would not leave him behind. They would not leave behind their Burglar, their Hobbit, their Bilbo.

But as they inch closer he can see Kili smiling and his gaze filtering over Thorin’s shoulder and the King forces his exhausted body to twist back.

And there he is; a shining beacon within a valley of death and desolation. He looks worn and weary and he is far too pale for Thorin’s liking, but Bilbo is there and he is alive and smiling and close enough for Thorin to take several strides and wrap his strong arms around him and never let go.

Bilbo is sheathing his sword- marred and dirtied with black and forgotten innocence- and he is nearing- so close now. Thorin feels a smile- so unreal and glad and unbelievable happy- stretching at his lips and he moves to meet his Hobbit halfway. He turns completely and takes a step and then there is chaos.

No one sees the dagger in the dark.

The moon is shining a light on a flash of silver and Thorin can feel his throat tightening and his head spinning faster than the weapon flung from the grip of a dying orc.

Someone cries out behind him- Bifur or Bofur he thinks, but at this moment he does not care. He cannot care.

There is silence and it seems almost unreal. It is as if everything had frozen then- in that one moment wherein Bilbo’s smile turned into a pained, wet gasp and the long dagger sheathed itself into his chest through his back and right over his beating heart.

Thorin does not feel his legs move.

But Bilbo was frozen, his lips parted and his eyes widened to reveal innocence the King had not seen since he had looked in the mirror as a young Dwarfling. There is a single moment in which no one does a single thing- and then it is hell and chaos and a pandemonium as Bilbo wavers and his knees are hitting the soil so hard his entire thin form trembles terribly.

But by then Thorin is at his side- unsure of how, or when, but that he simply is- and he is on his knees and his arms are bereft of the weariness and the exhaustion because catching and cradling the Hobbit’s fragile body is all his mind is telling him to do at the moment.

And so he does, and he holds Bilbo close as the dagger shifts and he gasps, his precious crimson blood leaving a trail of red across his torn and worn attire and Thorin’s arms.  
He is struggling to breathe and there is more blood dripping from his lips as his tips his head further into Thorin’s arms and that is when the King finally finds his voice.  
“Bilbo…” It is as soft as the quietest whisper and yet laced with the utmost urgency. He swallows desperately because this cannot- thiscannotbehappening- not now, not when they were so close, this-cannot-be-happening.

“Help! Someone! Healers! Help him!” He barely recognises his own voice above the ragged breaths his Hobbit is drawing with a growing desperation. His eyes are fluttering close and Thorin is saying something- except he does not know what- something similar to hang on, my Hobbit, and Bilbo please, breathe and he is begging as he had never done so in his life.

“Thorin…” It is light and pained and he hears it as the loudest thing across the now raging battlefield. Bilbo’s small hands clutching to his coat as if it were his life-force. His eyes are wide and Thorin can see his fear and his acceptance and his apologies shining from within as clear as the dagger protruding from his chest.  
He does not know how much time has passed (or if any has), but Bilbo’s eyes are shutting and his harmonious voice is drifting and Thorin has never been more desperate in his life because this cannot be how it ends. This cannot be what happens. This cannot be it.

He almost does not notice Bilbo slipping from his hold and into that of a healer because all he can see is the red of his Burglar’s blood drying on his arms and when he does look up, all that is left to greet him is the healer’s retreating form and the glint of sliver from its stand within flesh.

And suddenly, nothing else matters.


	2. To Dwell is not to Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He is not lost!” There is a deep assurance in his voice; soft as a whisper and yet as hard as steel. “He is not lost.” He repeats far more controllably, “My Burglar will come back to me. They will bring him back to me.”
> 
> In that moment, he is unsure of whether he is attempting to convince Gandalf or himself.
> 
> Or, in which all Thorin can do is wait, and still his beating heart as he finds his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys are enjoying the story! So a quote some of you may notice (the Harry Potter fans) I have used but paraphrased. I found it extremely fitting in this context.
> 
> If you don't recognise it, I'll be posting it in the end note.

All he is able to do is hold his breath.

The tent is small and worn and he is sure that beneath its filthy scarlet folds that it is crowded beyond measure. The night is dark and a pale silver illumination is all the light they are given to guide their search for ally survivors from in between the bodies of the dead. There is a certain stench, Thorin notices, not similar to the one he had sensed in the midst of battle; it is not one of blood, sweat and tears, there is no determination lingering and no more loud, howling war cries to be heard throughout the now desolate field. No, rather this is something far more similar to the one thing the King has found himself escaping the entirety of his life; death.

It is the stench of rotting corpses with too much blood spilt; evidence of deterioration.

He shifts outside the makeshift compound and pretends not to hear the cries and declarations of the Dwarven healers (and Balin, Balin will not what to do. He will save him. He will) within. He finds it is not hard to dismiss over the heavy breaths shaking his chest and the undeniably loud beating of his heart from behind its cage of fragile bone. He uses the remainder of his focus to keep his legs from collapsing from beneath him, from his entire body giving in to the bliss of unconsciousness and ignorance.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head to rest against the old fabric, folding his arms gingerly to his chest and feeling more worn than he had ever recalled.

His hands are still crested with the dried blood of his Hobbit, but he could not bring himself to move from his place since his aching and gaining legs had dragged him here.   
They would not let him inside the tent, they would not even let him anywhere near his Burglar because my lord we need the space and his condition is dire, there is no room for any margin of error and what good is a king who is unable to remain on his own two feet? Go and rest. We will wake you with any news. (But they do not understand, none of them do). How are they able to expect he will ever leave his place before his is sure Bilbo is well?

He will be king soon, and he will take care of his people. He will be king soon and he will grasp command over his kingdom and his council and devise plans to rebuild his home. But now he is not the King, he is not Thorin Oakenshield of the sacred line of Durin, the champion of the Battle of the Five Armies. He is merrily Thorin of the Company and he is standing outside an old tent full of healers trying to save his Hobbit, and for the moment, that concerns him far more than any kingdom or city or dragon.

It has not been long, he thinks, perhaps an hour at most. He has made it clear to his Company and anyone who will bother enquiring that he will not leave nor will he rest until he has heard news. For a time Fili and Kili remained beside him, but he allowed them to be whisked away to take care of the Kingly duties of which he was unable.

His mind was a cage of madness and chaos, a hurricane of thoughts whirring miles every second and grief weighing down on his shoulders with every silent cry he could imagine escaping from Bilbo’s throat as the dagger was removed from his chest. 

If anyone found it strange for the King Under the Mountain to be counting every breath outside a (dying) Hobbit’s tent, no one mentioned it.

And then there were footsteps.

Soft and almost silent, feet treaded upon bloodied soil with a grace unmatched even among elves. He did not need to peel his eyes open (could not because he saw him, Bilbo and the blood, somuchblood, whyistheresomuchblood, in the shadows of his eyelids) to know whom now stood next to him.

He did not bother moving when the guest settled beside him, radiating a certain warmth and chill simultaneously. 

“Gandalf.” The first he had spoken in a while, he recalled offhandedly. 

The Wizard did not speak for a short while, allowing a strange and tense silence to pass between the companions. Thorin could almost imagine the anger shining brightly in his friend’s eyes. The wrath he thought he would surely find, deeply hidden beneath the layers of age and wisdom and yet no less present than the air which is so thick Thorin is sure that if he takes a breath long enough, he will choke on it.

When he finally does open his eyes and forces his wounded body to tilt his head and gaze at the tall figure beside him, he does not see what he expects.

And then again, when does he ever when it had concerned Wizards?

He allows an exhausted sigh to pass from between his chapped lips and it is a moment longer before the elder speaks, standing completely still and weary from beneath bloodied robes of grey and a tall torn hat. For a second, Thorin allows himself to consider the power and prowess radiating from Gandalf, despite his evident fatigue. The crimson (which is surely not his own) spoiling his clothes but not diminishing his strength any less. For a minute of silence, Thorin considers if anything would have changed had he listened to the wise Wizard at an earlier notice.

(He did not dwell on it too long, because there was still hope, and he refused to allow himself to be entangled within the throes of grief when there was so much life yet to be had.)

When Gandalf finally speaks, it is as if he has been reading his mind.

“You could not have prevented this.” And yet, Thorin recognises disappointment when he sees it.

“You do not know that for certain. Had I not begun this, perhaps none of it would have ended this way.” Perhaps he would not have to stand outside a tent in the midst of a battlefield which healers worked tirelessly to bring him back his Hobbit from the clutches of death. Perhaps he could have found his voice to apologise. He knows Gandalf does not know this for certain and he hates it.

The Wizard glances at his tired form from the corner of a single grey, storm orb and allows a sigh of his own. A soft sound of resignation, the King recognises.

“Perhaps.” There is a pause whilst the world continues in a fluster around them. “It does not do to dwell on what has been lost Thorin-” But Thorin does not allow him to finish.

“He is not lost!” There is a deep assurance in his voice; soft as a whisper and yet as hard as steel. “He is not lost.” He repeats far more controllably, “My Burglar will come back to me. They will bring him back to me.”

In that moment, he is unsure of whether he is attempting to convince Gandalf or himself.

Another glance. “Perhaps,” he says again, as Thorin takes a breath to calm himself, “or perhaps he will lie dying from the poison spreading through his veins. Perhaps the last thought on his mind as he struggles to take his final breath will be of leaving the Shire and all he holds dear to journey dangerously for your sake, of sacrificing so much only so you could have banished him and abandoned him because he saved your life. Perhaps he will wonder if you will ever see past your greed. Perhaps he will wonder if it had all been worth it.”

And all his anger leaves him. Thorin is spent and exhausted and he does not feel wrath because all Gandalf has spoken is true. Perhaps his greatest crime has been the wrongs he had committed against his Burglar. 

“It does not do to dwell on pity and forget to live, Thorin. It does not do to reminisce over what can never be. It is not the time for such acts. It is the time to live, Thorin, live for your Burglar if you wish the same of him. Rule your kingdom and become the king you were always destined to become, and hope that some of the innocence and life and gentleness has remained within the Hobbit you hold so dear.”

For the second time, Thorin wonders if Gandalf is peering through his thoughts and the darkness of his mind.

He dismisses the thought with Gandalf’s retreating back, and supresses the urge to call to the Wizard, to demand him to treat his Hobbit because he knows that Gandalf the Grey does not bear the power. He allows himself to linger over the words a slight bit longer, and almost misses Gandalf’s final words as he walks away.

“Know what it is you hold most dear. Thorin Oakenshield. For there will be a time when you will be forced to choose between your pride and your precious.”

His precious? 

He wonders what the words him, but before he is able to question him, there is the rustling of tent folds and Balin is stepping from within, his hands soiled with the drying blood of his Hobbit and something Thorin cannot recognise flashing across his features.

He is turned towards him before he realises he has moved, with a silent question on his lips, asking something his voice could never.

The older dwarf looks at him, and Thorin feels his breath catch.

And then he is moving out of the way and Thorin can see within the tent.

His heart stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned earlier, the quote is:  
> "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that." - Albus Dumbledore (because I am a major Potterhead and OMG Gadalf paraphrasing Dumbledore this is so fabulous!)
> 
> Hoped you guys enjoyed that and I will be updating shortly. Don't forget to comment and let me know what you think!


	3. The Longest of Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There must be something more. You must be able to do something more.” He does not take a breath because this is surreal and he is speaking as quickly as he is able. “What have you not tried? What have you not done?” He is demanding and his voice is cracking and breaking but he cannot find it within himself to care.
> 
> Balin only lifts his gaze and shakes his head, and Thorin finds that he will never forget the cruel words which pass from his friend’s lips.
> 
> “We have done all we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update folks, but chapter four should be by tomorrow.  
> Note: I've taken a quote from Return of the King with Aragorn at the Blackgate and used it in a different context. Brownie points to whoever figures out which one it is!

Let it not be said that Thorin Oakenshield had never laid eyes upon the desolation that is death.

He recalls the crimson coat bathing his men at arms with the stench of the end, the ridiculed probability of the afterlife. He recalls the whispers passing through broken and cracked lips through the night, and the beaten, broken bodies to whom the final words had belonged to. He recalls the massacre which cost him his only home, and the end which his grandfather had brought upon himself. He recalls the screams, the cries and the (pleading, pleading, pleading) sure morbid finality of a mother who knows she will die at the blade of the enemy defending her children.

Let it be said he has seen all that is and will ever be death.

And yet nothing he recalls is similar to what lays before him now.

His legs are moving at their own accord and before his weary mind is able to comprehend. He does not see Balin ushering out the healers. He does not see as they whisper behind hands and into willing ears. He does not see the disapproval, the disappointment, the pity.

He does not see the look which flashes before a maester’s eyes as they take in what is a futile cause. 

He does not see the death.

Rather, what he does see is ash. Pale as snow and lifeless, Thorin would not have known that his Hobbit had lived if not for the slight yet steady rise of his chest. His fingers run across and gently feel the warm furs the younger being lies within, and watches with a morbid fascination as the bandages wrapped undoubtedly tightly around a thin chest fail to hide the complete extent of what was beyond the healing powers of the Dwarves themselves.

Bilbo’s eyes are blessedly closed, and his dark lashes are a stark contrast against the paleness that is his skin. His lips are slightly parted as if for breath, and Thorin thinks that if he strains his ears, he will be able to hear the soft beat of his heart and the rattling of his lungs. He looks so slight and young framed within large, soft furs and the fingers lying crossed across his chest seem far more lean and delicate than they had ever before.

Thorin tries not to dwell on how close they had come.

Instead, he inhales a steadying breath and makes sure his heart has not stopped completely, before his hands are sliding across the makeshift bed that seems as if it is anything but comfortable, and cradles petite and pallid palms between his own tanned and coarse digits.

He manages not to flinch at the coldness of the hands which had offered him so much of home, so many memories of warmth and care and something else which he has entirely failed to identify. He does not think it is simple affection.

But his Hobbit lives. He is alive and breathing and Thorin will not leave his side until his comely dark eyes are open and he is demanding to have his soft mess of curls cut because (Thorin, they are a mess of disarray! A Baggins of Bag End should not have-).

And then he finds himself wondering if Bilbo is not so much more than a Baggins of Bag End, (because he truly is not).

He almost forgets he is not alone.

He hears Balin clear his throat and tries not to think about the skin that is the colour of snow, lying cold and almost unmoving beneath his fingers. He can feel the beat of a heart trying to provide for a fragile body injured almost to an irreversible extent, and tries not to ponder over how he had not realised his palm had moved to rest over the muscle.

He tells himself to think nothing of it.

“When will he recover?” There is an absurd sureness to his voice, but he cannot help himself. He allows the beautiful musicality of the heart beating beneath his fingers for a moment, before he realises that the other Dwarf has not spoken. Something akin to panic begins to tighten its coils around his chest, but he manages to calm himself down with a set to his shoulders. “Balin?”

He finally turns.

And wishes he had not.

His old friend stands behind him, his features decorated by something Thorin is far too familiar with. He recognises what is to occur before Balin has said a single word.

“Thorin…” There is regret there, laced intricately into the labyrinth of what is to be his words. Thorin listens with a growing fear but he knows he does not want to. This is not how it should end. This cannot be how it will end. 

He turns completely and forces himself not to crumble at what is lingering in his eldest friend’s orbs. He cannot find his voice.

“We have done all we are able. This is beyond us.” Thorin does not speak.

It takes a single moment before Balin is moving to the other side of the bed, and Thorin’s eyes are trailing his hunched and fatigued form. He kneels on the hard ground, as his King is, and his aging hands are sliding along Thorin’s and his fingers tugging at the bandages as if to allow them to unravel. A small part of him does not wish to see, to know of the extent to which he could not protect his Hobbit. But a larger part forces him to harden his gaze and he watches as the wound is reveal from beneath the sea of sanitised fabric dressings. 

Thorin feels something giving in within his chest when the intricate wrappings come undone.

A chest once unblemished and with scar is now the palest Thorin thinks he has ever seen and decorated with something similar to ink black poison (as dark and wearisome as night) racing beneath and within delicate veins. Like the shattering cracks along a clear looking glass, they are evident and obvious and Thorin knows this is only a side-effect of death.

He does not need anyone to tell him it is only a matter of time.

Except he has come this far, and his Hobbit has come this far, and he refuses to give in to the poison coating the dagger of a lowly orc. He refuses to lose someone as precious as the Halfling to something as trivial as death.

“There must be something more. You must be able to do something more.” He does not take a breath because this is surreal and he is speaking as quickly as he is able. “What have you not tried? What have you not done?” He is demanding and his voice is cracking and breaking but he cannot find it within himself to care.  
Balin only lifts his gaze and shakes his head, and Thorin finds that he will never forget the cruel words which pass from his friend’s lips.

“We have done all we can.”

There will come a time, he knows, when he will awaken and Balin will speak those exact words and Bilbo will waste away, hour by hour, until he will fade and become to coldness which consumes him. There will be a time when he will be forced to rule his kingdom without the familiar warmth beside him, with a head of golden curls and bright eyes and the most impossible smile to welcome him home.

But today is not that day.

“Leave me.” He needs to think. He needs to understand. He will stop at nothing to save his Hobbit. He will fight the strongest soldier and face the most frightening of situations; be it death or otherwise. Bilbo deserves this much in the least. 

“Thori-”

“Leave me!” His voice rises and for a second he wishes to apologise to his eldest friend, but Balin is already leaving through the folds of the tent and Thorin knows he will not return until the pass of countless hours. Balin does not understand, he knows, no one does. He needs peace and silence and someone who is able to help, and already knows who he must call upon before this longest of nights it done.

He wonders if Gandalf the Grey is really as wise as is said, and decides he will take his chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has missed it, the quote was "But today is not that day".


	4. To Kneel Before a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you take me for a fool, Gandalf?”
> 
> “I take you for a King, Thorin Oakenshield!”
> 
> Gandalf purses his lips and parts them for a moment, as if calming himself to speak. Thorin says nothing.
> 
> For the first time in his quest, he is truly and utterly lost at what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Another chapter and another in the making!

As night gathers and the moon illuminates all it is able to reach with a calming, silver glow, crows pass overhead and all that is heard beyond the voices of allies and prisoners alike is the fluttering of dark raven wings. There is no silence, even beyond the orders and shouts and harmonious musicality erupting from the instruments of Dwarves and Men.

There is only relief to be heard laced within the allegiance; louder than any voice Thorin has ever heard.

With silence comes uncertainty, he thinks, and for once, he is glad for the noise.

It represents so much more than victory and championship; and as grudgingly as he might admit, it represents the life- the offspring of what may one day become a surely suited companionship between Kingdoms; be it Dwarven and Elven or otherwise.

The first thing he does once his boots crunch against the dark soil moist with blood both pitch black and crimson, is order for his Hobbit to be moved to more suitable quarters within the castle itself. Balin takes a single look at the determination flaring within his gaze and does as requested, only allowing the glance of indecision and hesitation to cloud his eyes for a single moment.

Thorin supposes he should not have seen it, from behind the veil of his exhaustion and grief.

And yet it is there and is so painfully evident that Thorin wants nothing more than to completely wreak destruction on the unwelcome emotion and lack of belief. He does his best not to crumble beneath that stare; the eyes of one of his greatest friends which tell him to give up because all that is within their ability at the moment is to allow their Burglar to ease into death as painlessly as possible.

Thorin sees it, and some grudging part of him- (buried beneath his battered yet beaten heart) - completely understands Balin’s meaning and intentions.

As he walks away on shaky legs and a head held high- looking exactly how a Dwarven King should- he hopes with all he has left that his quest to seek out the Wizard will not be futile. He is grasping onto whatever hope he can scavenger, what light he may say shining in this dark day, cradling the scattered ashes and chilling embers of faith.

He cannot help but wish as only he had wishes as a child- with all his might and strength and standing- that Gandalf will aid him in lighting the embers into a fire which will dance until kingdom come.

He loses himself within his long strides, only pausing to wish the best for those who notice him, and slightly share in their joy as they praise their champion for returning their home to them. He runs into the sick, the injured and the mortally wounded- and is so suddenly reminded that his Hobbit is not the only being teetering on the steep edges of death. For a cruel and selfish moment however, Thorin thinks that he is the only one whom truly matters.

He allows his thoughts to drift to his company; the remaining eleven dwarfs whom he had not seen amongst the others. He wonders where they had been, where they were, and chides himself mentally for not enquiring of their physical states, even though he is aware that his Hobbit had been the only one able to find enough trouble for it.

He does not meet many soldiers after the first hour of his search and is oddly thankful for the filthy coat blood, grime and death reeking from his being. He may walk like a King, but looks as every other soldier who fought in the battle, and is glad for once that many of his kin and allies alike dismiss him with a nod.

He is surprised when he realises the speed at which his legs take him, and notes the slight loss of breath as he inhales and exhales through bloodied and chapped lips. When he finally turns and allows himself to ponder over his quest, he finds that his subconscious has lead him to the far southern borders of the battlefield. It seems as if no one is here, and soon his long fingers are scraped and blistered through his gloves from lifting himself over and above large jagged rocks and wonders, as the crimson runs freely from his flesh, why he had ever thought the Wizard may be in this isolated, lonely place beyond the guard of his soldiers.

When the sound of a light stream of fresh water travelling within the aging banks of a river and further overlooking a wondrous maze of darkened and crumbling dead trees, he knows Gandalf could be nowhere else.

When he has successfully found his footing along the edge of the crystal pale water and the refreshing scent of the only factor living in a forest of dead, he feels a warmth- light as wind and swift as rain- appear beside him, he knows he has found that whom he has searched for.

“I almost did not expect you to seek me so soon.” He only notices that a surge of fresh air has picked up, and begins to howl along within the night. The thin, wasting blades of grass give in beneath its growing force and brush against his dirtied boots. He lifts his gaze to overlook the river as the aged and wise voice washes over him as easily as the breeze.

“You knew.” It is not a question, and they both know it. To his surprise, Thorin feels no anger towards the Wizard. Only a heavy sadness he finds he cannot explain.

Gandalf does not say anything, and the King knows he is awaiting his elaboration. He knows this is a lesson; an assessment of sorts. He is somewhat startled to know that he will do anything to pass, even to the extent of falling to his knees before the Wizard himself, if that is what he wished. It is a funny thing, he ponders for a moment. Twelve months ago he would have placed his pride before that of the Wizards, before the life of the Halfling.

Now, he cannot know how he would do anything less.

“Save him.” His voice is suddenly a rush; a great difference in the surreal, shocked state of calm which seemed to envelop him. “Gandalf, save him and I will grant you all the gold you desire- all the lands and standing-” Gandalf says nothing and Thorin takes the quickest deep breath he had ever- “I will-”

“I cannot.”

Thorin feels the breath leave him and turns immediately to face the other being. His head tilts and his incredulous and angry eyes meet those steely and grey and he cannot hold his tongue.

“Cannot or will not?” It is sharp and cold and cruel but Thorin does not back down. 

Something dark and cold seems to seep from Gandalf and there is no longer the warmth which had been present only a short while ago. Thorin knows it had been the wrong thing to say, but Gandalf was his final hope- his final everything. He is suddenly breathless and Gandalf towers angrily above him with a fire of such he had never seen.

“Do not test me, Thorin Oakenshield!” His voice blooms and has more effect than the wind picking up amongst the trees. Thorin does not peel his eyes from his companion. 

He is not afraid of the other’s wrath, though he knows he is foolish not to be. He meets the man with his own glare as swift and dark as the looming night. He swallows tightly and knows there is a hard glaze to his eyes.

“I will fall to my knees before you, Gandalf. I will beg you before the entire kingdom to save my Hobbit. I will grant you anything you wish, anything you have ever wished. I will do anything you ask of me…” He is running out of breath but he sees the taller being softening and hi orbs dropping slightly. He no longer radiates a cold darker than death. “Save him, I beg of you Gandalf. Save Bilbo.”

There is silence- a true silence wherein Thorin does not hear the stream of the river or the howling of the wind. And with silence comes uncertainty, and he thinks, an uncertainty more morbid than anything he had ever witnessed.

“I cannot, Thorin.” He feels his heart stop but says nothing. He finds he cannot find his voice anyway. “It is not within my ability.” He wants to shout, to yell, to tell him that he is the Great Wizard, Gandalf the Grey; everything should be within his ability. But he knows it is futile and he knows that the Wizard understands his own strength better than any. 

The weight on his shoulders is so heavy Thorin only wants to sink into the soil and shrivel beneath the rocks, because he has failed the only one which has ever mattered.

“I cannot save him,” Gandalf repeats and Thorin wants to tell him to quiet down (because he knows, he knows of his failure, of his inability to even help him who has given so much)-“but he can be saved.”

What?

A rush of confusion floods his thoughts, and all he can comprehend is (that is impossible, if Gandalf cannot save a life, then who possibly could?). Vaguely, he wonders exactly what the Wizard is planning, and scolds himself silently for ever attempting to meddle in the business of a Wizard. He will find some other way- he will not stand for this false hope, as cruel as Gandalf is to supply it.

Before he opens his mouth to retaliate with sarcasm and madness, Gandalf pinpoints him with a stare which he recognises all too well. Something sinks in his chest and suddenly it seems as clear as day to him.

“You will fall to your knees, Thorin Oakenshield. But it will not be before me.”

The words are stuck in his throat. The Wizard cannot be implying what it seems he is, and yet Thorin knows is he implying no other. His stare incredulous and his eyes wide as he twists his body; now fuelled by disbelief. He wonders if Gandalf understands exactly what it is he is saying.

“Do you think me a jester, Gandalf?” There is real anger behind his words and Gandalf does not fail to take notice. Thorin thinks that behind that long beard of silver he is sighing as if he speaks to not the King under the Mountain but some young naïve Dwarfling. His brows furrow and his fists clinch in leather gauntlets, and yet he feels the sharp press of fingernails breaking skin.

“Oh for the pride of Dwarfs!” He raises his eyebrows in something akin to fake surprise. “You will kneel and beg for the life of Bilbo Baggins before the entirety of your Kingdom- to me, and yet you will not to someone who bears the ability to heal him?”

Thorin finds his tongue through angrily clenched teeth.

“I will not kneel before Thranduil!” Gandalf says nothing, only holds his gaze, Thorin senses anger such as never before boil within his chest. He feels the flesh of his palms give in beneath the strength of his fingers. “Do you take me for a fool, Gandalf?”

“I take you for a King, Thorin Oakenshield!”

There is a heavy, uncomfortable pause. Neither speak for a moment and wind wails desperately in the distance, blowing at their heavy robes and leather. It is all that needs to be said.

Gandalf purses his lips and parts them for a moment, as if calming himself to speak. Thorin says nothing.

“Thranduil is perhaps one of the greatest healers within Middle Earth, certainly the only one with the ability to save Bilbo within your reach. He is not an unreasonable man, Thorin son of Thrain. Choose what you will; allow the Halfling to waste away to sickness and poison or save him at the price of your pride.”

Thorin is left breathless as Gandalf’s robes swish behind him and he disappears into the dark shadows of the night. And all he is left with are the soft patters of rain as they dance across his skin and the bleeding scraps of his hands.

For the first time in his quest, he is truly and utterly lost at what to do.


	5. That Which is Precious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is he precious to you? Do you value his life more than your own?” 
> 
> "Bilbo Baggin's life is more precious than that even of a King, be it the one under the Mountain or otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Folks! I do apologise for the delay- things have been quite hectic what with school looming in a few weeks. (How busy can the life of a fourteen year old be, you say? Oh you would be surprised.)
> 
> And it's reaching climax. Enjoy this as I work on Chapter 6 :)

He shifts in the antique wooden chair; it is studded with gems of sapphire and scarlet, plated with the carvings of aged gold and silver. The mahogany catches in the light of the sun as it blooms from behind the thick glass panels of the tall window. It’s soft and bathes the majestic room within in a glittering welcoming glow and Thorin finds his shoulders slumping further against the invisible weight resting on his back. 

He eyes do not leave the Halfling; the slight creature is cocooned within a nest of rich, thick furs and resting upon a large royal bed of elder wood and fit for the greatest of kings.   
Thorin thinks it should be, seeing as how it is his.

He has the Hobbit moved into his quarters- he only orders this and does not explain why and no one asks him. If they had, he would have supplied them with an excuse that could not have been further from the truth because the truth, he finds, is far too painful to consider.

His elbows lay on his knees and his fingers are clasped together as he listens to the wonderful melody of Bilbo’s calm and soothing breaths, lips parting ever so slightly for each inhale and exhale. His eyes remain closed and his skin remains an extremely unhealthy pallid shade of ash; an alarming contrast to the thick dark blonde head of curls which frame his young face (and cheekbones far too prominent to be healthy). His thin arms are crossed over one another on his chest and seem to amplify the beat of his strong heart, and all Thorin can do from dark until dawn is stare in deepand demanding contemplation.

First light has struck and he knows he must do as he will now; there is no more to ponder or consider. Gazing unto the small figure asleep almost soundly on his bed, buried beneath layers thick enough to cover his far too evident ribs and slim waist, if one had not known, it would have been spectacularly impossible to guess of the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest- hiding a wound both deadly and fatal.

One would not have guessed the Hobbit had rested on his death bed.

Looking back at his actions as he had stood before the raging river and the looming form of Gandalf, Thorin wondered how things had gone to hell so quickly. He wonders, as he sits silently watching a creature whom he knows may not ever see the light of day again, how he could have reacted so poorly.

He speculates if this is how treacherous his greed has made him, and knows that as soon as he is able to peel his dark orbs from the Hobbit that he will go to Thranduil and surrender all that he is.

He does not want to think about how the imminent death of such a creature who had never seen war any years previous, could have elicited such a reaction from him. How Bilbo Baggins had gained control of a power with enough strength to bring the King under the Mountain willingly to his knees; the power to make him beg for a life that is neither his, nor one that is Dwarven.

It is a power he is willing to crumble beneath if it means allowing his Hobbit to live another day.

His decision is made before he climbs onto shaking legs, and thinks if it had not been made before he had sat down.

He makes sure Bilbo is not left alone, and journeys to seek out Thranduil. 

~

As soon as he finds his way through the labyrinth of corridors (he is so glad to remember), he treads with a pounding in his head and a tightening to his lips towards the quarters only a floor beneath his, which have been assigned to the Elven King. With a nod to the guards posted outside the tall wooden door, he requests a private assembly with a creature he once considered a great enemy.

His presence is granted and he attempts not to dwell on the fact that he had just asked permission to enter chambers within his own kingdom and enters once the Elven guard returns and bows to him respectfully.

He releases a breath and wonders about what exactly it is that he is doing, and hopes that he will not regret his actions.

The room is similarly furnished to his. It has been dusted and cleaned and if it had not been for the aging stale scent hanging about the lavish wood, Thorin would have easily believed it had been occupied for the previous six decades. 

His dirty boots are pressing against a pristine crimson rug and his eyes taking in the carvings and elder Dwarven patterns sculpted into the walls, and notices the emerald drapes have been left lying limply before the closed window, blocking out anything that may connect them to the outside world. There is silence, and from here, Thorin thinks he cannot even hear his own breath.

Thranduil awaits him by a large withering table crusted with gems of countless colours and shining bright despite the many years they had been left unattended. The table top is plated with silver and it seems to be the only thing which has been left unclean. It does not shine nor does it sparkle and Thorin is thoroughly reminded of how much Thranduil is actually able to appreciate extensive craftsmanship.

The light thud of a locking door is what snaps Thorin from his reverie and he lifts his gaze to meet that of the Elven King.

His hair tumbles down broad shoulders and a golden crown embedded with cerulean rests upon his head. It’s delicate craftsmanship, and sits comfortably on the head of the King as if he had been born with it. Thorin does not think about that.

Thranduil stands and his robes of violet are not creased or folded and sit perfectly on long limbs, embroiled from the finest silk and crafted with the utmost care. Thorin tries not to compare his dirty and bloodied boiled leather and tangled locks to that of a King who dresses as if he had not seen war or blight in centuries.

He wants to question the man as to why he spends more time maintaining his looks than he does in aiding others; but holds his tongue. He reminds himself this is not the time to argue.

Thranduil tilts his head and watches Thorin with a peculiar interest lingering in his mystical orbs. He stands completely straight as a soft silence descends upon the two Kings, Elvish and Dwarven. There is another moment of pause before Thranduil speaks.

“I assume this is urgent; you have requested a private gathering with me.” The pounding in Thorin’s head begins to beat in rhythm. He keeps his eyes on the other and does not answer. He finds he does not need it. “Please, sit.” Thorin does, taking his place at one end of the table whilst Thranduil does the other. He cannot help but feel judged and scrutinised whenever the Elf sets his stare on him; he does not require confirmation to know this is exactly what Thranduil is doing (after all, it is what he is).  
The chair shifts beneath his weight and Thorin does not allow himself to relax. He braces himself.

“What do you require of me, oh King beneath the Mountain?” There is something akin to mocking laced in his tone, but all Thorin can think of is his Hobbit lying all too still and fragile in a bed far too large for him. He licks his lips when he finds his voice.

“Thranduil.” His tone is sombre and he knows the other party is paying closer attention now. He seems aware, at least to an extent, that this is of some importance. Thorin knows he does not want to do this, does not want to ask this of someone such as the other king, but remembers Gandalf’s voice as it rings in his head. 

You will fall to your knees, Thorin Oakenshield. But it will not be before me.

“I would not ask this of you if I had any other choice.” Thranduil is most definitely curious now, Thorin can see in from the question behind his eyes. He internally prepares himself; he has never been good at asking things of others. “Know, I will owe you a debt; I will reward you with whatever you wish, so long as you do me a service…” He trails of and his fingers are drumming against the silver of the table.

“What is it you require, your Majesty?” The mockery is there again, and now Thorin forces himself not to reply with sarcasm or anything which may push the other from his favour. He attempts to steady himself; he did not think it would be this hard.

“I…” His voice is suddenly gone and all he can remember is the trembling Hobbit in his arms as blood cascades down his chest in thick rivers of crimson. It’s falling from his lips and his skin is white as ash and his eyes are closing and his flesh is as frozen as the coldest snow-

“Who is it you wish me to save?”

Thorin snaps from his thoughts at those words. He mentally shakes himself; how could he have been so naïve? Of course it must have been extremely evident. Else, why would he have gone to such trouble? He ignores the image of death and attempts to concentrate on the smell of dust and age rather than the iron of blood.

“The Halfling. Surely you must have heard- he was wounded with the poison of Orcs; he does not stand to live much longer if-” 

He is interrupted through his plea and forces the defeat and fear ricocheting through his tone to the back of his throat in a bitter swallow as Thranduil replies.

“He cannot be healed. The poison of Orcs is a mark of death; surely even you must know this.” He raises a pristine golden eyebrow and Thorin finds his anger rising. He quickly quells it down and wonders what Gandalf must have meant when he said Thranduil was not an unreasonable man.

“The healers cannot heal him, yes- the Dwarven healers.” His voice is coming back; “To us it is a mark of death- but to you…” he trails off when he is sure Thranduil understands what he is implying. There is another moment of silence before he breaks it. His nerves are fraying and he is all too aware. “Thranduil you are my final hope- Bilbo’s final hope, you must-”

“I mustn’t do anything!” Thorin is momentarily surprised ad taken back by the anger in Thranduil’s voice, the rage suddenly plastered on his features. “You began a war because the Halfling attempted to save you from yourself. You declared him traitor and threatened to kill should he ever show himself to you again- and know you bear the nerve to ask me to save him? To save him so you are able to satisfy your guilt- clear your consciousness for saving him from your mistake?” There is incredulity behind his words, as if he does not believe what is being asked of him. Thorin allows the words to bear down on his shoulders and does not deny any of it.

“I was wrong- Thranduil- blinded, yes- I was blind to what was truly important-” 

“And you expect me to believe this? Allowing the Hobbit to die is a fate far more just than leaving him at your mercy after what you have done.” The words are cruel, but Thorin sees the truth behind them. He thinks Thranduil believes them and doesn’t think about how honest they are.

“I will reward you with anything you wish. Anything you please; save the Halfling and it shall be yours. I see clearly now,” he makes sure Thranduil sees the truth swirling within his orbs, “as I have never before. Grant this of me, save this life, Elvish King, and I will be at your mercy.”

Thranduil does not say anything, but his surprise his evident. His long fingers are pressed hard against the top of the table and his lips are parted. There is understanding in his eyes; understandings such as that which Thorin had never seen before. As if he knows something no one else does, and is willing the world to cherish it.  
His lips press together and Thorin awaits the answer.

“He has changed you Thorin Oakenshield, the King who allowed greed and pride to blind him into war and desolation. The Halfling has changed your cold, bitter heart- I do not understand how; but I do understand that he is much more than you deserve.” Thorin allows the words to wash over him in silence. He knows this far better than anyone alive. “I will save your Hobbit, Thorin son of Thrain,” his heart begins to beat faster to the rhythm in his skull, “but it will be at a price.”

“Anything.” It slips from his lips, and at the moment- he knows he is willing to sacrifice the world for his Hobbit.

Thranduil takes a breath.

“Is he precious to you? Do you value his life more than your own?” Thorin wonders what Thranduil is playing at. He has already agreed.

"Bilbo Baggin's life is more precious than that even of a King, be it the one under the Mountain or otherwise."

It is the truth and it feels wonderful to say it.

Thranduil takes a moment. His nails drum against the silver and Thorin holds his breath.

“I will save him. I will heal your Hobbit of his ailments. All you have to do is surrender something Thorin Oakenshield.” Thorin lifts an eyebrow and feels his emotions beginning to fray. “I will save him for the price of your pride.”

“What are you playing at, Thranduil?” This time he does not hold his tongue, and feels his annoyance boil beneath his leather. Not for the first time, he wonders if all he has achieved is the mocking of an Elf.

Thranduil shakes his head slowly and something Thorin does not recognise filters through his orbs. He looks at him as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, and Thorin hates him for it. He does not have time for petty games. He growls beneath his breath and his fingers press tightly together. His lips part but Thranduil speaks before he is able to.

“The stone.”

For a short moment, there is quiet. The dark bathes the furniture in an estranged glow. Thorin’s eyes are wide before his mind supplies him with the information he has been given. He feels bitter laughter bubble within his throat before the other king speaks once more.

“Give me the Arkenstone in exchange for the Hobbit’s life. The choice is yours, Oakenshield.” 

Thorin cannot help the slow laughter from passing in between his lips. He wonders if the King is serious, if this is not another joke; an attempt of mockery. 

“You cannot be serious, Thranduil.” He has barely thought of the stone since that fateful night a single moon past, but something swirls deep within his chest- a want, a need. He faintly imagines the bright wondrous glow of the stone as it sits perfectly in his palms and thinks about its shine as it glimmers above his throne. 

His one, his only. His pride.

“No.”

Another moment. 

“Then, no.” Thorin is taken aback. He splutters for a moment, his lips parting in anger. How dare he? How dare Thranduil- “If you will not give me your stone, I will not save him.” Thranduil tilts his head at Thorin’s expression, as if he should have expected this. “Think about this carefully, Thorin. What do you cherish more?”  
His pride or his precious?

Ad suddenly everything is falling into place.

He silently curses the damned Wizard for his foresight and wishes that he had been warned. Could this have gone any worse? He cannot give up the stone- the endless colours, the magnificence only a King should bear. His treasure, his, and no one else’s. The Arkenstone is worth so much, of so much value- it is precious, far more precious than-

Than Bilbo Baggins?

Something hurts in his chest and his heart is beating faster. He remembers the soft pale skin, the bright wide smile. The courage shining behind eyes of the most beautiful wood, the smooth locks of caramel. He thinks of the bravery which had been turned into crimson in his arms, the trust which had become betrayal as his fingers had locked on the fragile neck. The pain and betrayal and-

And love? 

No, no he thinks. No gem is worth more than the life of Bilbo Baggins; be it a sapphire, emerald or the Arkenstone itself. 

“Will you allow the poison of greed- a poison far deadlier than any other, to sicken your mind as it did your father and his father before him? Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, will you sacrifice that which is most precious for the life of a Halfling?”

And Thorin knows the answer before he says it.

“That which is precious beyond all value is no gem. That which is precious is Bilbo Baggins.”


End file.
